


Not Past Season 40?

by Cerdic519



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Old Age, Rest Home, character death (sorta)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-17
Updated: 2014-01-17
Packaged: 2018-01-09 02:17:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1140268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A small fic inspired by Misha's remark yesterday that in light of recent criticisms, he doubted the show would make it past Season 40. If I didn't know him better, I might suspect he was being just a tad sarcastic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not Past Season 40?

Thursday 18 September 2053  
   
Dean sighed as he eased his creaking joints back into the chair. Seventy-four years old, and he really felt every single one of them.  
   
His brother plopped down heavily into the chair opposite, and swiped at Dean’s frame with his walking-stick. Unfortunately the passing years had served only to increase the moose’s height and reach advantage. Dean had to be content with giving him the finger.  
   
“You two were at it again last night!” Sam groused. “Honestly, the whole rest home could hear you!”  
   
Dean snickered.  
   
“Just seeing in the old guy’s birthday”, he said defensively, reaching into his pocket for his flask to help wash down the six pills on the small table beside him. “Advantages of having an angel boyfriend Sammy; he can mojo us both back to our prime, and keep going like forever!”  
   
“Euw! TMI, brother!”  
   
“And he’s so flexible…”  
   
“Dean! Shut up!”  
   
“Hullo Dean.”  
   
That inimitable rumble, yet it got him every time. Dean swung his head round as his husband approached, happy to see the trench-coated figure even though he’d only left him in their bedroom barely half an hour ago. He knew the wrinkles and greying hair were all just imaginary, generated by Castiel’s angel mojo, but the fact his mate loved him enough to grow old gracefully (disgracefully, Sam often quipped, acerbically if accurately) was proof of their profound bond, and how deeply the blue-eyed man felt for him.  
   
“It’s my birthday”, Castiel said, easing himself into the chair alongside his husband. They always marked the angel’s birthday on the anniversary of his raising Dean from Hell, although the question of his age was a thorny issue – the nursing staff thought that the nine-figure number in his age slot was just a computer malfunction. “I get to do what I like on my birthday.”  
   
He looked meaningfully at his husband. Sam swallowed hard and hoisted himself to his feet.  
   
“Just don’t traumatize the staff like last time!” he warned, before tapping off hurriedly – for a seventy-year-old - back to his room.  
   
“I’m still amazed we both made it to old age”, Dean sighed, hugging his husband. “Of course, beloved. I’ll do whatever you want.”  
   
“Come with me”, Castiel whispered, gently pulling him up.  
   
+~+~+  
   
Dean had to lean on his husband as they went out the front door, and saw a familiar figure waiting for them. Scaden Winchester-Novak, their eldest son, standing before what was now his Impala. Dean was grateful that Castiel’s angel mojo meant all six of their kids had something of both fathers in them, though a different mix in each. Scaden was tall and sandy-haired like Dean, but had the angel’s blue eyes and his habit of tilting his head to one side when curious. He opened the door for Dean.  
   
Scaden drove them both up to Inspiration Point, overlooking the entire city. There was a taxi waiting for them, and after quickly kissing both his fathers – he looked quite emotional for some reason, Dean noted - he smiled and was driven away. Once they were out of sight, Castiel lightly touched his husband, and they were both young again.  
   
There was a picnic spread out on the grass, the sun was shining, there was the lightest of summer breezes – everything was almost perfect. Dean leaned over and kissed his husband long and sensuously.  
   
Now it was perfect.  
   
+~+~+  
   
The sun was just beginning to sink below the horizon when Castiel stood up and yawned.  
   
“I think the day is almost done” he said quietly.  
   
Something about the way he spoke made Dean look at him in alarm.  
   
“You’ve not been summoned back to Heaven again, have you?” he asked anxiously. Castiel had been ‘upstairs’ a few times in recent years, and every time some small part of the old hunter had been afraid he might not return.  
   
“I have not been”, Castiel said, sounding almost rueful. “We have.”  
   
Dean stared at him.  
   
“I’m dying, aren’t I? he said quietly.  
   
“I could keep you alive for many years yet”, the angel said softly, “but…. I can only do so much, Dean. I can mask your age like today, but I cannot hide the truth, and your body is old, especially given everything you've put it through. But in Heaven – you can be like this forever. And I can be with you.”  
   
“What about Sammy?” Dean asked at once.  
   
“His time is not that far ahead”, Castiel smiled. “Come, beloved.”  
   
The angel smiled at his husband, and eased him back into the Impala’s driving-seat. Once he was in the other side, he leaned over and kissed Dean.  
   
Dean blinked.  
   
He was standing some distance from the car, still young, with Castiel’s arms wrapped round him. A magnificent pair of night-black wings was folded around him, caressing him at every point, but leaving a narrow slit at the front through which he could see two elderly men apparently asleep in the car, wrapped in each other's arms. A sleep from which he knew neither would ever awake.  
   
Another blink, and he found himself standing outside somewhere strikingly familiar.  
   
“The Batcave?” he gasped.  
   
“Heaven is whatever you want, Dean”, his husband smiled. “You chose the place where you were really happy, the respite you had before the showdown with Metatron, and the place we first… well, I’m sure you remember.”  
   
“Do I get to re-enact that last bit?” Dean grinned.  
   
Castiel slipped around him, and Dean was almost totally enfolded in black feathers.  
   
“Every day for the rest of eternity, if you want to!” Castiel growled.

Dean stretched, and suddenly his own wings were unfolding behind him, tan gold and white. He gently extended his feather tips towards his husband, the colors melding together as they walked slowly towards the Batcave.


End file.
